To Save a Life
by Swevens
Summary: Though she loves the woods she was born to, Riniel longs for adventure. When a travelling company of dwarves wander through on a perilous mission, she seizes her chance and joins the quest. It isn't long before Riniel finds herself at the heart of Mirkwood politics as her ancestry thrusts her into a lethal game of cat and mouse, and the cat won't rest until she's dead.
1. Prologue

**Just a quick note about the story setting. It will follow the movies more than the book, though sometimes it might not follow either. Please let me know if I've made a mistake with important details, as it might not be on purpose. As always, it's very important to me that I know whether my work is good or needs improvement, so please don't be shy with feedback!**

TA 63

It takes all her years of training to keep her facial features relaxed, and even then, she knows better than to glance at her brother, riding alongside her through the glen. If she catches Elrond's eye, Lady Iseile knows she won't be able to control the tremor in her hands, which she keeps firmly on the reins the whole time.

She can see out of the corner of her eye that her brother tries periodically to draw her gaze to his, and though she loves him dearly, she knows she simply cannot allow herself any weakness. Not so long as the elven blade hangs heavy from her hilt, and maybe not even once it's safely returned to its owner.

Its owner.

A better blade, Iseile's never laid eyes on, for this fine weapon is as beautiful as it is deadly. The sword, aptly named Sword of Kings, or Alariele, belongs to the King of Mirkwood, Thranduil, to whom Iseile agreed to marry when she accepted the blade, delivered Rivendell three days past.

Now, in returning the blade to the King, she is to seal the pact and then, with her brother as witness, the marriage will be performed, and with it, the start of a union between the two elven kingdoms will come to pass.

So lost in thought is she, and assumingly Elrond, too, that neither of them immediately realize the danger approaching on the horizon. It isn't Elrond hears the thundering hooves approaching from behind that the danger is noted, and by then it's far too late. Elrond lets out a warning shout, and Iseile, who jerks her head up and behind her, quickly spots the racing shadowy shapes. The others in their party, consisting simply of common guards, turn as well but see nothing.

"Nazgûl!" Lord Elrond shouts, urging his horse forward.

Unprepared for the sudden turn of events, Iseile takes off down the rocky path mere seconds after Elrond, who flies ahead of the guards. She can hear the beating hooves closing in, and when the rider just to her right falls with a shout, Iseile quickly makes the decision to get off the road and split the party.

Hoping she's made the right choice to keep her brother safe, Iseile weaves between trees, urging her tired horse faster, spurred on by the sounds behind her that tell her at least a couple of the wraiths followed her into the forest. She cannot ride fast enough to escape them, though neither can they gain any ground on her, and so they ride deep into the trees, Iseile hoping that their mounts tire before hers.

After miles and miles of the chase, however, Iseile's mount stumbles over a rabbit hole and can't right himself, and Iseile is sent flying forward, where she lands on her bottom on the forest floor. Before she can right herself, the stallion is back on his feet and thundering deeper into the forest without her.

The wraiths – five, she counts, looking back – are racing harder now, seeing their chance to end the hunt.

In desperation, Iseile throws her arm up and mutters an incantation, filling the dark forest with the light of a thousand flames as the trees between her and the wraiths go up like tinder. She rises to her feet and begins to run, choosing the same direction her horse ran off in, in the hopes that she can catch the stallion and put more ground between herself and the forest fire raging dangerously close.

At dawn hours later, Iseile – still horseless – catches sight of a figure gliding towards her, on what looks like a rickety sleigh being pulled by rabbits. Tired and knowing her energy is spent, she places a hand on Alariele but doesn't try to run.

The stranger – an oddly-dressed stump of a man – pulls up beside her and squints up at her.

"It's a dangerous time to be roaming these woods," he says. "Especially with that fire burning through the trees so fast. My cottage is about a mile further in the same direction you're heading; you may stay there while I tend to the fire. You'll be safer there, who knows where the monster that started it is lurking."

"It was I who started the fire," Iseile admits. "I was being chased by Nazgûl, and lost my mount."

"Nazgûl, this deep into the forest?" the man replies, staring off towards the smoke. "I should've listened to that warthog, even if he was a little unstable…doesn't matter now, I suppose. Go on and take shelter while I'm gone. I would like to know why you're leading monsters into my forest when I get back."

And so she continues up the road, taking refuge in the home of the strange little man in the brown robes. Little does she know now, but her life has been forever changed these past twelve hours.

She will never see her dear brother Elrond again.


	2. Darkness Descends

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Darkness Descends

TA 2941

Something is very wrong.

I don't even have to leave the cottage to know this; the forest air crackles with unease. Careful not to wake my father, who was up most of the night with an ill fawn, I slip a cloak over my attire to ward against the chill spring air and slip out into the early morning sunshine.

After a moment's hesitation, I head in the direction I feel the most disturbance, weaving my way through the familiar territory. Unlike most mornings, the woodland creatures are nowhere to be seen, and if I wasn't uneasy before, I am now.

It doesn't take long to come across the first signs of sickness in the forest; I slow my pace once I begin to pass through areas where the once-green forest shrubbery leaves hang rotting from their vines. Having been out this way only the day before last, I know the change is too recent to be natural.

I stop in my tracks when I come across the first of the animals. A young rabbit lies to the side of the trail, its beautiful tawny pelt matted and missing tufts. I pick up the poor creature and set him under the cover of a nearby bush and resolve to return later to bury him properly. Just around the next bend, I find two more rabbits dead in much the same manner; twenty paces beyond them, a small fox becomes the fourth casualty.

I'm feeling sick to my stomach and more than a little unsettled, ready to turn back and fetch my father, when I spot another tiny body just beyond the fox. Feeling obligated to move the tiny body off of the path, I approach it, only to make several discoveries.

Not only do I know the little hedgehog curled up on the trail, but he's the first living creature I've come across this morning.

"Sebastian!" I exclaim, reaching down to pick up the tiny creature. He barely responds to his name, and the way he's shaking in the warm sun worries me. Talking reassuringly to the hedgehog, I dart quickly back up the trail to the cottage.

"The salve could use a touch more turmeric, and maybe some boiled juniper broth," Father says, handing back an ineffective bottle. It's the third one he's tried since I burst back through the door an hour ago with my ailing ward.

"It's not doing anything," I argue, ignoring his instructions. More turmeric isn't going to make a difference. Noting Sebastian's laboured breathing, I instead pull down a vial of andrographis and dilute a few drops into sterile water, which I rub in slow circles over the hedgehog's chest.

"To help the breathing," Father notes, nodding in approval at my work. But it's not enough. He glances about the cottage, trying to think of another remedy we could try.

"I don't understand," I say, watching Sebastian worriedly. He can't go on much longer like this. "It's not like it's magic or anything, I don't see…"

I stop midsentence in alarm, jerking my head up to meet my father's gaze.

Oh," he says, his voice heavy with the realization we've both just come to. "But it is. Of course."

I hand Sebastian over to him gently and scramble to my feet. Darting across the room, I swing open a cupboard above my head, reaching up on the tips of my toes as I feel blindly around the cluttered space. I don't know why we have such tall cupboards, since my father stands only a couple inches taller than I. I remember belatedly, as I fall to my knees beside my father and hand him the bezoar stone, that he's always described my mother as being 'tall as a willow, and just as slender.'

"It's working," Father gasps, interrupting my thoughts. Sure enough, the vivid blue stone, held against Sebastian's mouth, is slowly filling with a cloudy black substance, as Father chants eerily. I do not recognize this particular spell.

My relief is short-lived however, as just then, the cottage darkens. Never have I seen the forest go black before noon, though the clicking that begins against the east wall is stranger still. As a dark shape covers the window, I turn in alarm to my father, who takes one look in the direction of the darkness and resumes his chanting, albeit much quieter than before.

These creatures are as foreign to me as the white beaches and jagged mountains from Father's tales, and though I can sense them, their thoughts aren't organized like those of the woodland creatures. Their thoughts are incoherent and chillingly malevolent. The only intent I can glean from their alien minds is the urge to kill, to destroy.

I raise myself into a crouching position and slink along the wall until I reach my doorway. Quietly as I can, I retrieve the cloth sack underneath my bed, pulling back the folds until I can slide the sheath out from its hiding place. I fasten the fine leather belt around my waist and return to my father in the front room.

I see him note the presence of the weapon, watch him glance at the fine bronze-coloured metal of the hilt though he doesn't pause in his incantation, merely nods his approval as a spiny appendage crashes through one of the rotting boards of the roof. The leg – for I'm sure that's what it is – reminds me of spiders' legs, though I've never heard of an arachnid thousands of times the size of a common house spider.

My heart is in my throat and my blood thrums in anticipation, but the rest of the roof holds, and the creature, whatever it is, scrabbles back down the other side of the house. Though there are several beings out there, no other appendages come crashing through the rafters. As quickly as they came upon the cottage, so too the monsters retreat back into the forest.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I held, and realize suddenly that Father has stopped his chanting. The bezoar is as black as the night, though the slumber claiming little Sebastian now seems much more peaceful. I allow myself a couple deep breaths in relief before looking once more to the gaping hole in the roof, where nothing but sunlight breaks through. For now, the danger has passed.

Even after the creatures leave and the room brightens once more with the late morning sun, I can feel the taint their presence left upon the meadow. It's a cold feeling, dark as a starless night, and so unlike anything I've ever felt that I turn to my father in utter bewilderment.

"What were those?" I ask him, not daring to raise my voice above a whisper.

Father nestles Sebastian among his family as he speaks, voice low. "I must leave Rhosgobel in your care," he says, already reaching for his outer robes. A short whistle brings his birds near, and he sweeps his hat off of his head, allowing them to settle in their nest of knotted brown hair atop his head.

"Where are you going?" I ask, standing to block the door. I won't let him leave until I have some answers. "Tell me you aren't going after them, not without me –"

"I am going in search of answers," Father says, gently nudging me to the side. "It's not safe for you, not where I'm going. It's best someone watches over the woods while I'm away."

"You can't keep me here forever," I rebuke, folding my arms as I follow Father into the yard. I stomp after him as he quickly rounds up the best of our rabbits and hitches them to his sleigh. "I am a woman grown, and I cannot stay here my whole life! I need _adventure_ –"

"Soon," he promises, placing a flitting kiss upon my cheek, "but not today. If any more dangerous creatures come through the forest, I am trusting that you will do what it takes to protect the woodland creatures."

Unsatisfied, I know when I am defeated and give Father a rare hug. "I will," I promise. "Be safe, Father."

"You, too, darling," he says, and then he is off, gliding through the forest at such a speed that he's out of sight before I turn back to the cottage.


	3. An Unexpected Visit

An Unexpected Visit

After a quiet couple of weeks, I have both patched the roof with new lumber and confirmed that no more dangerous creatures lurk within the forest, at least at the moment. Restless and awaiting news from my father, I find myself unable to sleep one night and venture out into the early night air, slipping through the trees as naturally as I do in daylight.

For a while, a lone wolf keeps pace alongside my trail, and though he never approaches the way others do, I can sense that he means no harm, and so let him wander along as he pleases. He is thinking, in abrupt flashes of images and emotions – as animals do – of his last meal, a tasty young buck he felled only this morning. He's not hungry, so he's not hunting me. As far as I can tell, he's merely curious as to what I'm doing so far from home in the moonlight.

I'm so caught up in the wolf's thoughts that I don't sense the approach of another being until he's standing almost right in front of me, just a few paces up the path. I come to a halt in surprise, unprepared for his appearance, and my hand immediately goes to the dagger at my waist.

"It's quite late for you to be so far from home," the man says.

Getting a good look at him, I drop my hand from the dagger instantly, and run forward to greet the long-bearded old man in grey robes. "Gandalf! It's go nice to see you!" I've been without human company for long enough now that I might welcome a chance encounter with a greedy human peddler, lost and looking for the road.

"And you, Riniel," he replies, returning the hug I offer. "But still, I must wonder what has drawn you so far into the forest, alone and at night. Where is your father?"

"Father has gone looking for something, what it is, I don't know," I reply, stepping back onto the path. Gandalf turns to follow, heading back the way he came. "He's looking for answers, though where these answers are, I couldn't guess. He's been gone now fifteen days, and all this waiting is driving me mad. I stepped out for a late night walk, and here we are."

"These woods feel darker than they have in the past," Gandalf notes, glancing up at the tree branches high above us. "The family living down in the clearing has disappeared, their house left abandoned in ruins. Where have they gone, I wonder?"

"I haven't been that far from home in ages," I reply wistfully. I vaguely remember travelling with Father to visit, and playing with two young boys for the afternoon. "I had no idea they'd left. But strange creatures passed right by Rhosgobel the day Father left. We'd been finding dead forest creatures for a few days before –"

I halt my story mid-sentence as I notice my wolf companion's shift in thought. He's tense; a strange smell on the horizon, a little ways up the trail, back the way Gandalf came from. With his sharp sense of smell, the wolf identifies several newcomers upon the breeze. He smells creatures much like men, only with a sharper, earthier tang, as well as a mustier, ranker scent he's never smelled before. The wind lifts a faint hint of fire smoke above the other smells, a familiar enough danger that my companion retreats back into the safety of the woods.

"Are you travelling with others?" I ask, abandoning my story completely.

"Why, yes," Gandalf replies. I can tell he's impressed with my knowledge by the way his eyes light up. I hate to dampen his spirits with the rest of what I've learned.

"Well, then, we'd best return to them, and quickly," I say, picking up my pace. "Unless, of course, you'd rather continue your journey alone."

We race quietly down the path, and soon my own heightened sense of smell can identify the faintest whiff of campfire smoke, though I cannot yet pick out the rest of what the wolf sensed.

I can hear voices arguing loudly when Gandalf places a hand on my shoulder and stops me in my tracks. We've come to a halt next to a fallen tree, its great trunk laying along the ground, the roots sticking out of the ground awkwardly.

"Wait here," he says in hushed tones. He must see the glint of defiance in my eyes, for he adds, "I am going to go see what they've encountered. When I give the signal, you may follow."

Figuring I can trust the old wizard to keep his word, I give a faint, jerky nod, and step into the shadows to wait. Gandalf slips out of sight, moving forward to assess the situation, I'd assume. I wish, not for the first time, that I could sense people the same way I could sense the wolf earlier.

Then, as if I've thought it myself, I hear a single thought from Gandalf spoken straight into my mind through some sort of magic I've never seen from my father. _Come quickly_.

I creep silently around the fire, coming close enough to the group that I can see the flickering light upon the bark of the trees as I pass, though I can't make out what is going on. I reach Gandalf's position in a matter of a minute, darting behind trees as I pass by the edge of the clearing. He presses a finger to his lips, as though I was planning on speaking and giving away our position.

"There are three trolls in the clearing," he says, very quietly. I don't question how he knows so. "The sun is on its way up, but I'm afraid my friends don't have enough time left for it to rise above that large boulder to the east. I am going to split the stone, at which point I need you to do what you can to let as much light through to the trolls. The light must turn them to stone before they can escape."

The voices around the fire are blabbering on about worms, though I can't hear enough of what's going on to make sense of it. Keeping silent myself, I nod, and follow behind Gandalf as he heads for the giant rock blocking the morning sun. I keep back a few paces as he darts, quickly for an old man, over to the boulder and climbs upon it.

From where I stand, just off to the side of the rock, I can see down into the clearing through the shrubs I'm hiding in. Three giant monsters – trolls, I realize – are sitting around the biggest campfire I've ever seen, rotating a roasting spit upon which several unusually small men are tied. Several more are tied into giant sacks and tossed in a heap nearby.

"The dawn will take you all!" Gandalf proclaims, capturing the trolls' attention. Mine, too, returns to the wizard.

"Who's that?" One troll asks.

"No idea."

"Can we eat him, too?" My first impression on the intellect of trolls is not a promising one.

Not bothering to reply, Gandalf simply raises his staff into the air and brings it down forcefully upon the boulder, both physical exertion and magic working together to split the stone clean in half. The early morning sun finally shines down into the clearing, its bright rays landing instantly on the two trolls in its path.

Realizing that one troll stands just far enough to the side to be safe, I dart out into the clearing, positioning myself beside the cleaved rock. With nothing else on me, I draw my dagger, glancing back just long enough to gauge the angle of the sunlight. The troll takes two great, panicked steps before I angle my blade, pleased to see the reflected light has the same effect upon the great brutes as a direct beam. The last of the monsters lets out a final shout before his face and feet freeze into stone and he comes to a stop a few paces from his cohorts.

First the dead animals and the spidery creatures, now a trio of trolls lurking in the forest. I stare at the beasts, wondering why my homeland, peaceful for so long, is suddenly crawling with dangerous creatures. I wonder if my father will share with me whatever answers he finds.

Only the triumphant cheering of the troupe breaks my gaze away from the great stone trolls now frozen around their giant fire. The men – all of them short, only one a deal less hairy – help each other out of the cooking sacks, obviously beyond relieved at the result of the wolf's instincts and Gandalf's quick thinking.


	4. Thorin's Company

Thorin's Company

The group on the ground works quickly to release their companions still tied above the fire, and soon stand together in a riotous group, all clapping each other on their backs and hollering amongst themselves. It's only then, when they're all on the ground, that I realize that they aren't short men at all, but possibly dwarves. Having never seen a dwarf before, I have to base my guess from descriptions I've read in stories.

Gandalf, meanwhile, hops down from the rock and joins me on the ground, giving me a find pat on the back for my efforts. I follow as he approaches the statues, watching as he studies one with a narrowed gaze before rapping upon its leg as if to rebuke the creature.

One dwarf, of middling height, based on the range of stature among the group, approaches the two of us. With only a cursory glance at me, he turns to Gandalf. Something about the way he holds himself suggests an air of authority that makes me wonder whether he or Gandalf claims leadership of the group.

"Where did you go to, if I may ask?" The dwarf directs his speech at Gandalf. I notice upon closer inspection that his dark mane is streaked with grey, as though his hair is fighting for its youth and losing the battle. I wonder how old this dwarf might be, but don't know enough about his kind to make an accurate guess.

"To look ahead," Gandalf says simply.

"What brought you back?"

"Looking behind," Gandalf replies, and though he raises a brow at me, he doesn't mention my warning. In front of a stranger, I'm glad for the discretion, though I can't say why it should matter.

"Who is she?" The dwarf asks, glancing then at me. The way he asks it of Gandalf rather than talk directly to me doesn't lend itself to friendly conversation.

"I am Riniel, of the forest," I tell him, not giving Gandalf a chance to introduce me. "I might ask the same question of you, who travels through my homeland unannounced."

The dwarf studies me for a short moment before deciding to grace me with an answer. "Thorin Oakenshield, leader of this Company," he replies. "You ought to keep better track of the sort of beings you let settle in your lands."

"Well," I say, looking quickly down at my scuffed shoes before meeting his gaze again. "This is really more the edge of my lands."

He raises a brow at the admission as Gandalf speaks again. "At least you're all still in one piece," he says, glancing at the rowdy group across the clearing.

"Yes," Thorin agrees, "though I give no thanks to your burglar."

Gandalf's face furrows into a frown at that. "He thought to stall for time," he says sternly. "None of the rest of you thought of that."

Thorin doesn't reply to that, but we're saved from the tense silence as the others seem to suddenly realize that they've gained a member during the night's events.

"And who might you be?" A friendly dwarf asks, stepping up to examine me. He's got the whitest beard of the lot, and probably the warmest smile, to which I find myself smiling back. I don't have time to answer him, though, as the others pipe up, throwing questions at me like little arrows.

"Are you a wood nymph?" One of the younger ones, a blonde asks.

"Are you an elf?" Another asks, disdain dripping from his voice.

"Of course she isn't," the one beside him interrupts, rolling his eyes. "Elves are a great deal taller, and have you ever heard of an elf with such curly hair?"

"That was quick thinking, using your blade like that," another young one compliments with an easy grin, before I can scowl at the last speaker. This one, too, is obviously a fairly young dwarf, with dark hair and darker eyes. Easily the tallest of the group, he's an inch or so taller than me, even.

"I'm Kili," he adds, extending a hand. Unsure as to what he means to do, I mirror the action and let my hand hang there, a few inches from his. He pauses as if waiting for me to do something else, though when I don't, he gives a little shrug and takes my hand in his larger, rougher one and shakes it up and down vigorously. I can hear Gandalf laughing quietly to himself beside me.

After Kili speaks up, they're soon all introducing themselves and doing the strange hand-shaking ritual, which I soon improve at myself. The old dwarf with the nice smile is Balin, I discover, and the young blonde dwarf is Fili, a brother of Kili. The quiet, less hairy one is Bilbo. The others I have to work on remembering, if I even see them past today.

"And you are?" A tall, balding dwarf named Dwalin (a brother of Balin, I think) asks, once they're through with introductions.

"Riniel, of the forest," I repeat, giving a little bow.

"Ren-eel," Kili tries, mangling the name.

"_Rin_-ee-elle," I try again, sounding it out.

"Ren-iel."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "_Rin_-iel_. Rin_."

"Reniel," he says again. A couple of the others try it too, though none of them can quite manage the lilt of the first syllable.

"Ah, bother it," Kili says, giving up. "I'll just call you Ren."

He still can't pronounce it properly, but I like the idea of having a nickname, and nod in consent, though he really didn't ask for permission as much as state his intent. He grins back and claps my back so solidly that I lurch forward before I can stop myself.

Thorin, not having been one to take up the game of trying my name, is the first to return to business. "I didn't think trolls ventured this far south," he muses, turning to look at the great statues behind us.

"They haven't," Gandalf answers. "Not for an age or more, not since a darker power ruled these lands."

Several in the group shared a troubled glance at that.

"They could not have moved in daylight," Gandalf continues, glancing around the glade.

"There must be a cave nearby," Thorin replies, and almost immediately, the group spreads out in search of it.

I hesitate only until Fili and Kili motion for me to join them, and then without another thought, I bound after them, excited to be amongst so many people.

"So are you all dwarves?" I ask them, wanting to confirm my earlier guess.

"No," Kili replies with his easy grin. "We're just really pretty orcs, actually."

I laugh at that, and Fili says more seriously, "all except for Bilbo, who is a burgl-Hobbit."

They both crack up at that, and though I have no idea what a burgl-Hobbit might be, I _have_ heard of Hobbits and assume that to be what Bilbo is. It explains his lack of a beard, anyway.

The two of them spend as much time jostling each other – and me – and telling jokes as they do actually searching for the cave, so it's no surprise that at the turn of an hour, Thorin's voice shouts out the discovery.

Following the sound, the entire group is soon gathered at the mouth of a cave hewn naturally into a small cliff just west of the trolls' camp, sloping down into the ground. It's deep enough that the sunlight cannot reach the back of it.

Gandalf leads the way down, followed closely by Thorin and then the rest. I hang back and enter last with Bilbo, who gives a friendly smile but doesn't speak as we descend. Thorin's torch lights the room at the end of the tunnel, though it does nothing to dispel the stench along with the darkness.

"Be careful what you touch," Gandalf calls from the front of the procession. A moment later, as Bilbo and I enter the room, I quickly spot the reason for Gandalf's warning. Piled here and there are bones and bits of sinew from whatever the trolls fancied eating. The walls are caked, too, with blood, though I quickly forget the gruesome sight as I notice just what makes up the pile near the tunnel.

Human bones have been tossed carelessly into a heap, and while the discovery alone is enough to make my stomach churn, I find myself leaning against a bloodied wall as realization washes over me. In such an isolated forest, there are only a few people these could have been – the farmers from the clearing. One relief is in finding that none of the bones belonged to children, meaning my playmates had grown up before the trolls moved in. _Maybe they moved away_, I think, _maybe they were spared_. There's no way to know for sure.

A delighted shout from one of the men draws my attention further into the cave, where a pile of treasure sits, enough to spill out over the edge of the small chest. Two of the dwarves look at each other and begin to dig into the soft floor of the cave, as if they mean to bury the gold. Moments later, I'm surprised to find that they are indeed, as they drop the chest into their hole and take turns scooping up the remaining coins and dropping those, too.

Thorin, however, kneels nearby to pick up a long, dusty object. I watch, curious, as he shakes the dust off to reveal a sword sheath. He pulls the hilt out, and a fine, shiny blade sings with freedom as the torchlight glances off of it. Gandalf steps over to retrieve a second blade from the shadows.

"These are not of dwarven make," Thorin says, studying the hilt.

"Blades such as these could only have been forged by the High Elves, in the First Age," Gandalf replies, looking over his own.

Thorin glances up at the wizard in disgust and moves to set the sword back upon the ground.

"You couldn't ask for a finer blade," Gandalf says, steel in his tone.

Thorin straightens back up, sword still in hand, but his reaction makes me wonder if Thorin's distaste for the race goes beyond the simple distaste elves and dwarves have always held for each other.

"It's time we headed north," Thorin calls to the group. The dwarves by the hole shovel dirt back over the treasure faster, while the rest begin to file back out of the cave behind Thorin.

Near the spot where Thorin found the blades, my foot hits something hard, and I pause to pick up the offending object. I'm surprised to find another, smaller blade overlooked by the others. Taking a moment to admire the detail on the hilt, I know I have no use for a second blade and hand it off to Bilbo, who stands nearby as if waiting to escort me back to the surface.

He hesitates, not overly eager to claim the blade for his own. I, who am almost tempted to keep it as a spare, don't understand his reluctance to take the beautiful sword into his possession.

"Go on," I encourage, holding it out for him. "I have my own at home. Even if you don't have to use it as a weapon, it's an elven blade. It'll glow blue if orcs or goblins are nearby."

"Thank you," he says simply, taking the sword at last. Smaller than the others, this blade looks to be just the right size for the small dwarf. He does then, and we make our way out of the tunnel.


End file.
